


The Price of Beauty

by Sapphy, SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Series: The Eternal Batman Universe [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Bonding, Crack, Fancy Suits, Future Fic, Like in an 80s chick flick, M/M, Makeover, Shopping, but with Joker, shopping montage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joker needs new clothes, and it's surprisingly hard to find bright purple suits online. Bruce thinks taking him shopping is a bad idea, but listening to him moan is worse. Possibly. Probably.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Set in an AU where Joker is Bruce's prisoner in the Batcave, and Bruce makes terrible life decisions when Alfred isn't there to tell him off)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same future as the one Dick visited in The Feasibility of Eternity.
> 
> There's a brief mention of Vengence. In this future, Scandal Savage eventually became a Superhero and took the name Vengence.
> 
> As for Red and the Wolf... let's just say they're junior members of the Bat family and leave it at that for now. We'll come back to them later.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: There's no fanart! The wonderful talented love_joker is apparently not content with translating this fic, she's also drawing fanart! Check it out: http://lovejoker4ever.deviantart.com/art/ink-Bruce-s-being-sweet-477237512?ga_submit_new=10%253A1408671409&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1&ga_recent=1

Batman is taking his prisoner shopping. He's frankly uneasy about the whole arrangement, but it's been a long time since Joker last tried to run away, and seeing Nightwing’s shocked disapproval had reminded him that he does have a responsibility to look after his prisoner.

Joker's been wearing Batman’s old workout gear for three years now, since the untimely demise of his last purple suit, and, if Bruce is totally honest, it's starting to bother him. It just doesn’t seem right, Joker being dressed like a normal person. For nearly a century now, the colourful suits have been as much his nemesis’ signature as his ruby red grin.

They’re undercover today, because Joker’s still technically a wanted man and Bruce has been legally dead for decades. Joker hadn’t been happy about it. Bruce’d had to physically wrestle Joker’s lipstick off him, all the while ignoring Joker’s somewhat obvious physical reaction to their closeness (which was completely natural, and totally unimportant. Bruce has been celibate since before his 'death', and though he doesn’t know for sure, he suspects it’s been nearly as long for the Joker. It’s only natural that their bodies should react to closeness. It doesn’t mean anything).

He should probably, he thinks, have stopped bringing Joker lipstick. But it's such a small thing, and it makes him so happy, and, if he's honest, he doesn’t like seeing Joker without it. It makes his exaggerate facial expressions seem even creepier, his grins even more manic. So whenever he's near a pharmacy, he picks Joker up another tube. Probably far more than he really needs, but Joker's excited and grateful every time.

Now that he thinks about it, Bruce thinks this might be the first time he’s ever actually gone shopping. When he was still Bruce, whole shops would be shut down for him when he entered, or Alfred would acquire anything he needed without his ever needing to leave the house. And as Batman, anything he’s needed either came from Lucius, or these days, he orders it online via a discreet armaments firm in South Korea. Pretty much the only things he’s ever actually bought are Joker’s lipsticks, and occasional food.

He’s wearing the only suit still in his possession. It feels odd to be out with his face uncovered, but this long after his official death, no one’s going to recognise Bruce Wayne. Joker is wearing a hooded sweatshirt Bruce is sure he’s never seen before, and a pair of Bruce’s joggers, which are sliding off his slim hips even with the drawstring pulled as tight as it will go. From a distance they could be mistaken for father and son, a fact which Joker points out with great relish.

Money isn’t a problem at least. Bruce isn't as rich as he once was, but he’d made provisions before his ‘death’ to make sure he would still be able to access at least part of his fortune. And apart from food and regular repairs to the Batmobile’s suspension, he’s had nothing to spend any money on. So they're headed to Gotham’s most exclusive department store, one of the few stores in town Bruce actually knows, and one where he knows he’ll be able to get everything they need. There'll be bigger crowds, more chances for Joker to disappear, but they’ll be finished quicker.

The revolving doors spit them out into homewears and furniture, and Joker insists on stopping to test every display bed they pass. Bruce lets him, not wanting to make a scene when they're supposed to be incognito. A sign by the stairs proclaims menswear to be on the third floor, but before Bruce can get a foot on the bottom step, Joker heads for the glass lift. He's almost vibrating with energy, more manic than usual, talking fast and high pitched, apparently totally unconcerned as to whether Bruce is listening or not. Once Bruce would have been impatient, or annoyed, but he's learned to read Joker in the years he's been living in the Batcave. It's impossible to judge his mood from his face, or even his voice. It's his hands Bruce watches now when he wants to know how his prisoner is feeling, those long pale violinists fingers that are never still, their twitches a guide to Joker's mind, if you only know how to read them. Now they're fluttering like dying butterflies, fingers twitching in time to some rhythm in Joker's mind. Bruce catches one of them between his own hands, holding it still, a gesture of control as much as one of comfort.

"We don't have to do this today," he tells him. "It can wait." It can't, Joker's last surviving pair of socks had finally fallen apart yesterday, and the oversized jogging bottoms are the only clothes in the cave that even halfway fit him, but they can manage if Joker's not up to being out. Bruce can always order things online.

"And turn down a chance to go shopping with the big bad bat?" Joker asks, with a shaky laugh. "What kind of a sucker do you think I am? Just don't... disappear."

"You really think I'm stupid enough to let you out of my sight?" Bruce asks, and Joker laughs again, sounding a little more confident.

As soon as they get out of the lift, Joker veers off towards a display of brightly coloured t-shirts. Bruce makes sure he can’t reach any of the exits without him seeing, and goes in search of the made-to-measure suits.

He’s admiring a particularly nice one in a deep midnight blue (and wondering whether he could ever persuade Joker to wear something that subdued), when a familiar singsong voice calls him.

“Hoooooney. Sweeeeeeeeeeeeetums!”

He turns to see Joker holding up two t-shirts, one in yellow and green stripes, with HAHAHA written across it in red, and one black with “I will have Vengeance” in green.

“You hate Creeper,” Batman points out, keeping his voice low. “You and he attack one another on sight. And you’d like Scandal even less.”

“I suppose she is a bit boring,” Joker agrees, flinging the t-shirt aside. “But I like Creeper. Just because I try to stab someone, or joker gas them, you assume I must hate them! And you knooow that’s not true. Why, just think how many times I’ve tried to kill you, Batsy!”

“Two t-shirts,” Bruce says, recognising that this is a fight he can’t win. “We didn’t come here for t-shirts.”

Joker throws him a lazy salute and goes back to rummaging through the piles, flinging the shirts he doesn’t want to the floor.

Batman leans against a display rail and tries not to smile when Joker holds a Red Riding and the Wolf shirt up against himself, and then flings it away with a noise of disgust.

He finds a Batman t-shirt from somewhere in the pile, and Bruce just knows he’s going to end up buying it for him. Then Joker lets out a noise of triumph, and dives into the piles of ‘retro’ hero shirts, Clark and Diana’s logos in faded colours, and reappears a minute later holding a purple shirt with a minimalist image of his own face on it, and ‘the joke’s on you’ sprawled across it in what’s obviously supposed to look like graffiti.

“They’ve got your size,” Joker says, in a pleading tone. “We could have one each! Say you’ll wear it Batsy baby, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“I’ll promise to wear it,” Batman says, “if you promise to behave yourself while you’re fitted for your new suit.”

Joker considers this. “How good,” he asks suspiciously.

“No hitting on the assistant, no hitting the assistant, no attacking anyone, no stealing pins, or scissors, or anything else dangerous, and if you make the assistant cry, I’m not getting you a single one of those shirts,” Bruce says.

Joker looks torn, like that’s an impossible decision, but at last he nods reluctantly, and Bruce thinks he’ll have to remember bribery next time he wants Joker to behave himself.

“Come on then,” he says, taking Joker by the shoulders and steering him towards the curtained off room where a (hopefully very patient) assistant is waiting to take Joker’s measurements.

Bruce had had a desultory look online when he first thought of this trip, wondering whether he could buy all that they needed without leaving the cave. But purple suits are hard to come by (and Bruce wonders how it was Joker always had so many of them, back when he was free) and besides, Joker is an unusual shape, long and so slender that Bruce sometimes wonders if he ought to be bringing more food, with the tiniest waist Bruce has ever seen on a man, and pronounced hip bones. Off-the-peg suits would hang off him like sacks, and that just wouldn’t be right. Joker has always been one of the most well-dressed people Batman had ever known, even if his taste in colours leaves a lot to be desired. It would be wrong to dress him in anything less than the best.

The assistant who is going to be measuring Joker turns out to be a slight man called Colin, and to Bruce’s relief is very obviously both straight and happily married. He finds himself wondering sardonically if he’ll still be both once Joker's finished with him.

There’s a little pedestal in the middle of the room, and Joker hops up onto it, posing himself theatrically.

The assistant is obviously used to bored patrons, since he just says, “If you could stand up straight, sir,” and pulls out a tape measure.

Joker holds himself still as the man measures across his shoulders, and only giggles when his arms are measured. The assistant is quick and professional, and when measuring his waist only produces a grin, Bruce begins to think that maybe, just maybe, they’re actually going to get through this without incident. And then the assistant kneels down to measure Joker’s inseam.

Bruce has long believed that Joker can make his body do anything he wants. He has a theory that it’s a side effect of the same chemicals that bleached his skin. No normal man could stretch his face into Joker’s signature grin, and no man so slender should be so strong. So he fully believes it’s a wholly voluntary reaction when the front of Joker’s sweat-pants begin to tent.

Joker giggles, and then laughs, that manic crescendo of laughter that’s rivalled only by the Creeper in its… creepiness. The assistant is looking more and more discomfited, and a task that should take only a few minutes is taking forever because Joker keep shifting out of the way of the tape measure, trying to get the assistant’s hand to brush against his crotch. It’s petty, and childish even for the Joker, but then he doesn’t get a lot of amusement these days.

At last the measurements are taken, and the assistant stands up, only to be grabbed by the Joker, and pulled into an embrace. He manages to get a hand in front of his face before Joker can actually kiss him, but he gets thoroughly groped before Bruce’s bark of ‘stop it’ actually gets listened to.

Bruce gives the man twenty dollars and a muttered apology, and the assistant hurries away, with promises to send in someone with fabric swatches.

“That was cruel,” Bruce says.

Joker laughs. “It was childish at worst, lambchop,” he retorts.

The person in charge of the fabrics turns out to be a small plump woman with a fierce scowl. When Joker sidles up to her, she practically snarls at him.

The fabrics she’s brought are good quality, but all in plain colours, dark blues, greys and blacks. Joker takes one look at them and turns his back. “Boooooring,” he says. “You promised me a _nice_ suit, sweetums.”

“Have you got anything more… colourful?” Batman asks.

“What were you thinking?”

“Purple,” Joker says immediately.

The woman looks surprised, but she just says, “I’ll see what we’ve got.”

She returns a few minutes later with a second book of swatches, these ones much brighter. She flicks through to about halfway through the book, and then hands it too Batman.

Joker comes to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder to look at the swatches. It always surprises Batman how tall Joker is when he actually stands up straight.

There’s a soft violet one, and a bluish purple one that seems to change colour as the light catches it, and then a lightweight woollen fabric in a rich purple with a delicate pinstripe.

“Oh Batsy,” Joker breathes, “It’s perfect!”

“This one,” Bruce says. “Five of them, different daytime styles, all this fabric.”

Joker reaches over his shoulder, flicks the page to reveal a much finer, silkier fabric in a similar, slightly pinker shade of purple. “Ooooh,” he says happily. “A tux!”

Bruce nods and says, “And a tuxedo in this one, please.”

The woman looks surprised, but she nods and makes a note of the fabrics. Then she produced a second book, this one of patterns. Joker waved it away.

“One of all of them,” he says, without looking. “Just make sure you show of my girlish figure.”

"And do you prefer a notch collar or..."

"I told you, one of each. So long they're fabulous!"

“Where do you think you’re going to wear a tux?” Bruce asks, amused. He doesn’t mind shelling out for the extra suit. He has a sudden mental image of Joker in his tux, waltzing around the Batcave alone, and has to suppress a smile. His fondness for the Joker is a weakness he should not indulge, but with Alfred gone Joker is the closest thing to a confidante he has.

“Well I never know when you’re going to sweep me off for dinner and dancing, you old romantic you,” Joker says. “I need to be prepared!”

“I don’t dance,” Bruce replies, something he regards as one of the greater benefits of Bruce Wayne’s 'death'.

“You might change your mind,” Joker says. “Now I need waistcoats! Green ones!”

It turns out, relaxed as he is about suits, when it comes to waistcoats he’s ridiculously fussy, rejecting the first fourteen patterns he’s shown, and spending ten minutes debating lengths and cuts and stitches with the assistant once he finally finds one he likes. Bruce has spent what probably amounts to weeks of his life being fitted for suits, and he still doesn’t understand most of what they’re saying. Eventually though, he settles on three patterns he likes, and a selection of emerald green silks in various subtle patterns.

“Now shirts, Batsy,” Joker says, grabbing Bruce’s hand. “Can’t have suits without shirts!”

Bruce has never bought off the peg shirts before, but while they can wait for the suits to be tailored, shirts are more urgent, so he just lets Joker pick out all the colours he likes from their range of super skinny shirts. They'll still be too big, but not horrendously so. The colour of the season is a sort of acidic yellow green, much to Joker's delight, and he picks shirts in that, and several in a particularly horrible shade of pale orange, and one in a purple and orange check that gives Bruce a headache just looking at it.

After shirts, Joker moves onto jeans. Fashion has moved on from the ridiculously baggy and oversized jeans that had been the fashion the year before (and had made Bruce's job considerably easier, since they were impossible to run in) and this season jeans were so tight they looked like they'd been sprayed on, in muted colours. There's a whole shelf of purple ones, to Joker's evident delight, and he makes Bruce wait outside the changing room and give an opinion on what feels like every pair in the shop. As far as Bruce is concerned they all look the same, but he does his best. Joker's been very well behaved, and he sees no reason not to encourage it.

Joker turns out to be almost as unbelievably fussy about socks as he is about waistcoats. He picks up and then rejects at least a dozen pairs before he finds ones that he likes, and then rejects those as well because they're only available in plain colours. An assistant is summoned, and dismissed, and a manager called. Eventually it is agreed that suitably colourful socks, in the wool/silk blend Joker had decreed acceptable, can be ordered and sent to Bruce's post box. Bruce quietly adds three pairs of plain black ones to the basket, so Joker will have something to wear in the interim.

Despite Joker's insistence that he rather likes bare feet, Bruce insists they buy shoes. Bruce has begun to develop something of a morbid fascination with Joker’s feet. He never bothers with shoes in the cave, and his socks are so worn they look like they might fall apart at any second, so he usually doesn’t bother with those either. His feet are long and well shaped, a little larger than average, and his toes are astonishingly dextrous. He wiggles them whenever he catches Bruce looking, and it makes something in Bruce’s gut clench, and his spine tingle. There's something almost indecent about the pale skin of Joker's naked feet, and he finds he's oddly uncomfortable with the idea of anyone other than himself seeing them.

Spats prove impossible to find, but Joker finds a pair of black and white saddle shoes that he declares 'acceptable'. He also falls in love with a pair of fluorescent orange high-tops, which Bruce thinks are the most hideous things he's ever seen, but he buys them anyway, because if he doesn't then Joker's just going to steal them and they're supposed to be keeping a low profile. Bruce buys himself a pair of fairly plain trainers, for undercover work, and a pair of hand stitched Italian leather dress shoes, because it's been a long time since he last bought himself something really frivolous, and he can't get the idea of waltzing with Joker out of his head (he has no idea if Joker can Waltz, Jive seems more his speed, but it's the only formal dance Bruce ever learned).

The make-up counter is their next stop, to Joker's obvious delight. He's relaxed a little, apparently now convinced that Bruce isn't going to dump him on the street and forget him (as though Bruce would ever expose Gotham to the dangers of a jilted Joker, and anyway, Joker makes the best coffee he's ever drunk) though he still keeps close to Bruce, touching him periodically, as though he needs reassurance that he's real. He picks up a vividly pink lipstick, one of the new ones with glitter in them, and Bruce chuckles at the image of him wearing it, but takes it out of his hand before he can get any ideas about actually buying it.

"Red is definitely more your colour," he tells Joker, who grins, delighted.

He puts a couple of eyeliners into the bag, identical as far as Bruce can tell, and a palette of dark green and blue eye shadows. Bruce tries to surreptitiously compare foundations to Joker's skin, but of course he notices.

"Fake Bake Brucie? Really? And I thought you liked me au natural!"

"You stand out too much like this," Bruce tells him. "If we go out again..."

Joker's eyes light up. "I knew it! You ARE taking me dancing! And I'm a Rimmel No. 2 matte foundation."

Bruce doesn't ask how he knows, just adds the tube to the bag, along with a little black compact of powder.

The potential minefield of the perfume counter is avoided by grabbing Joker by the wrist and forcefully steering him straight past. Which unfortunately leaves them in the lingerie department. Bruce can feel his face going red, and he doesn't need to look at Joker to know his face will be split by an enormous grin.

There's a moment of tense silence, both of them waiting for the other to move first, and then Joker's off, haring away through the racks before Bruce can stop him. Bruce follows, resigned and wondering whether he can afford to buy the whole shop. It'll probably be easier than trying to apologise.

Joker reappears surprisingly quickly, holding two handfuls of colourful lace. "They've got every colour!" he tells Bruce happily. "And look!" He holds up a pair of simple cotton panties, ruby red with black polka dots. "Wouldn't they have looked adorable on Harley?"

Bruce has never considered Harley's lingerie before. He shrugs.

"They'll look even more adorable on me," Joker says smugly, and flings them all into a basket. Bruce silently hands both his card and the basket to the girl behind the counter, who smirks the whole time she's ringing them up, and keeps giving Bruce significant looks.

"She thought I was your pimp," Bruce comments to Joker.

"She thought you were my sugar daddy," he retorts. "And she’s basically right. Come on sugar daddy, plenty more shopping to do!"

Their final stop, at Joker's insistence, is the food hall. Bruce has never understood the desire people seem to have for fancy food. He's eaten rat, without curry powder. After that everything tastes good. But Joker's determined, and Bruce consoles himself with the thought that he can at least get some good coffee.

Joker catches Bruce's arm the minute they walk through the door. "Bats," he whispers urgently, "I want all of it!"

Joker rushes from counter to counter, too distracted to actually put anything into a basket. Bruce follows behind, doing his best to guess what it was that attracted Joker's attention. The basket fills up with a bizarre selection of brightly coloured foods, waxed cheeses, smoked fish, sauces in decorative bottles and a huge tub of edible glitter. He eventually catches up with him in front of the patisserie counter. Bruce feels a twinge of nostalgia at the sight of the delicate chocolate and pastry confections, a memory of his mother taking him to a Viennese patisserie in town and letting him pick out cakes for tea.

She'd like sophisticated flavours, dark chocolate opera and bitter orange mille-feuilles, but she's always been tolerant when Bruce inevitably chose tarte-au-fraise, sweet fruit and crème patisserie more to his childish taste.

Joker is gazing at a huge display of vividly green patisserie flavoured with matcha or pistachios.

"One," Bruce says, remembering his mother's strictness. "You can have one."

He chooses a passion fruit and orange flower water sable for himself, thinking how much his mother would have enjoyed it. After much agonising, Joker eventually chooses an elaborate opera, alternately white and dark chocolate with green tea crème.

After some consideration, he gives Joker the bag of lingerie, and takes the stiff paper bag containing the beautifully boxed patisserie, not trusting Joker not to crush it.

"Can we get some lunch Batsy? Pleeeeeease? All this food is making me hungry!"

Bruce considers pointing out that he's about to pay for a mountain of food, more than they usually eat in a week, but then he reconsiders. Despite his reservations, he's actually enjoying being out in the day, feeling like a human being instead of a symbol. A few more hours won't hurt.

"You'll need to get changed first," Bruce tells him. "None of the restaurants round here will let you in looking like that!"

They take the lift back up to menswear, and Joker ducks into a free changing cubicle with his bags while Bruce leans on the wall outside listening to him giggling and muttering to himself.

When he finally emerges, he's almost unrecognisable, pale skin concealed beneath a skilfully applied layer of make-up, wild mop of green hair tied neatly back. He's wearing purple skinny jeans and the hideous orange hi-tops with the batman tee shirt and an orange button down. He's without his usual red lipstick, replaced by something matt in a flesh tone that makes his lips look fuller and less stretched, and his red eyes are hidden behind a pair of purple aviators. He looks stylish and disturbingly normal, more like an art student than a super-criminal.

"I want something spicy, Batsy," Joker declares. "Something real fiery." He's ducking his head, not making eye contact, and Bruce realises with a shock of amusement that he's nervous, out of his comfort zone.

"You look practically normal," Bruce tells him. "No one would guess you're a psychopath. There used to be a good Thai place near here. Shall we see if it's still there?"

"Almost like a real date," Joker purrs, linking his arm with Bruce. Bruce allows it tolerantly, amused at the effect the slight compliment had on him.

They get a few stares as they leave, but now the looks are admiring glances, and the odd indulgent smile. To his mild horror Bruce actually does feel like he's on a date, one of the few real ones, not when he used to take out models and actresses to keep up his image. He'd taken Selina out once, opera and a meal. The night had ended abruptly when a woman's diamond necklace had disappeared after Selina walked past her chair, but it had been fun.

The Thai restaurant is still where Bruce remembers, though the name has changed. It still looks pretty good though, full enough to be a good recommendation, but not so full that they won’t get a table. The host sits them by the window, looking out on the busy street.

The waitress doesn't do a very good job of hiding her disdain when Joker asks for the hottest thing on the menu, but she orders him something with beef, stir fried with chillies, and a rice wine. Bruce orders a green curry and a glass of mango juice for himself.

“Is this where we make small talk?” Joker asks, while they wait for their food to arrive. “I’m not sure we’ll be very good at it. It seems to me we know everything that actually matters about one another.”

Bruce purses his lips and doesn’t say that he knows nothing about Joker, because he knows that’s not true. He doesn’t know his name, or his past, or his favourite movie, but he knows when he’ll fight and when he’ll run, knows how to read his moods even when he’s trying to hide them. Knows, most of the time, how to put a smile on Joker’s face with just a few words, and how to wipe it off with even fewer. Compared to that, a name he’s not sure Joker even really remembers doesn’t seem very important.

“Or we could talk about how long it’s been for both of us since we last dated,” Joker suggests. “It would be awkward but sort of sweet too. I’d tell you about how my last relationship ended badly, and how it was a long time before I put myself out there again. About how I’ve been watching you for years, just trying to work up the nerve to say something.” He smiles, apparently to himself. “It would be adorable. And narratively satisfying.”

Bruce doesn’t know what’s gotten into him today, but he can’t resist the urge to play along, to give in, for a few minutes at least, to the currents of Joker’s madness. “And I suppose you’d tell me that all those years, all those crimes, were just you trying to get my attention. And that if I just tell you I love you, you’ll give it all up and come live with me?”

“I already live with you. Who do you think makes you coffee every morning? But you never know your luck, Batsy. Might be worth a shot! Take one for the team, lie back and think of Gotham!”

“I’m always thinking of Gotham,” Bruce says, and there’s only a touch of bitterness in his tone. He doesn’t resent the way the city has taken his life, he doesn’t, but sometimes he can’t help wondering ‘what if’.

“See that’s your problem Batsy, that’s always been your problem. That’s why you never got anywhere with the lovely cat, and why the little birds always left, and the girls too. Always thinking of Gotham. It’s not healthy.”

“You’re lecturing me on sanity?”

“Sometimes,” Joker says, one long fingered hand sketching the air, “it’s easiest to see something clearly if you’re outside it.”

“So mad people know more about sanity than the sane?”

“Well obviously! I mean…” he pauses, moves his hands out of the way while the pretty young waitress sets down their drinks. “I mean, who was the sanest man in Gotham? Gordon, right? No one saner than Gordon.”

Bruce shrugs his agreement. He’d always admired Gordon’s cool head, even when he disagreed with his policies.

“Well think about it. He spends his whole life chasing people like me, people that no judge would ever dream of declaring us mentally competent to stand trial, all the while knowing that Arkham was about as secure as a wet paper bag. His wife leaves him because he spends so much time on the job. I cripple his daughter and spend less than a month in prison and he still believes in the justice system. Think how many times he could have just killed me, and not once did he even try. If that’s not mad, I don’t know what is.”

“Creating a gas that makes anyone who breathes it laugh themselves to death?”

“No, that’s just called being civic minded,” Joker says primly. “My shrink always said laughter is the best medicine.”

“Was that a shrink called Harleen Quinzel by any chance?”

“You know her? Best shrink I ever had. And such a nice smile.”

“Such a shame you drove her to her death,” Bruce says, meanly, and feels a little bad when a flash of guilt passes across Joker’s face. It doesn’t last though, Joker’s guilt never does.

Bruce feels a little vindicated when Joker grins and says, “Yeah but have you seen those kids of hers? Gotham swapped a not very good supervillain for a couple of red-hot vigilantes. Seems like a fair trade to me.”

Bruce watched Red Riding and the Wolf grow up, and he knows they wouldn’t agree. They’re good kids, and they help a lot of people, but they’ve never got over the knowledge of their roots. “What you did to those kids was terrible.”

“They could have been normal,” Joker points out. “That sounds pretty terrible to me.”

The waitress comes back, bringing the food, which at least saves Bruce from having to think of a response.

"Remember the good old days?" Joker asks, when the waitress has departed. Bruce has decided he doesn't like her. She's giving Joker a decidedly interested looks, and he wonders what happened to the grumpy woman who'd taken their order. He liked her much better. Much more professional. Kept her eyes to herself.

"We're over a hundred," Bruce points out. "Which old days in particular were you thinking of?"

"Oh, all of them," Joker said airily. "Remember No Man's Land? That was fun."

"A lot of people died," Bruce says mildly, but his heart isn't really in it. Honestly, No Man's Land had been fun. People had died, but they'd died of cold, and starvation, not at the hands of supervillains. There'd been a simplicity to life in the ruined city that Bruce hadn't known since Tibet, and it had been refreshing in its way.

"People always die," Joker says. "It's how you know you're in Gotham. Remember when Scarface organised a raid on my territory?"

Bruce does, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face. "How long did it take you to fill all those cola cans with roaches?"

"Well I didn't do it personally, that's what minions are for. I was going to go for rats, originally, but then I made a truce with Ratchatcher, and he has a way of knowing these things. I did think of woodworm, but they're really quite hard to trap, and I had all these roaches just cluttering up the place..." Joker bursts in an explosion of laughter, and Bruce can't keep a small chuckle from escaping him. He hadn't seen the incident, but it had been talked about for weeks in No Man's Land, and witnessing it had resulted in the first real smile he'd ever seen on Cassandra's face.

"It really was the only sensible way to organise Gotham, you know," Joker says. "Give us all a patch and leave us to get on with it. With you to supervise, of course."

"As I recall," Bruce says mildly, "You didn't have a territory, you had a house."

He'd wondered about that, on the rare occasions he had time to wonder. The other big names of Arkham had all carved out territory for themselves, Penguin running to black markets, Mr Freeze controlling the power station. Two-Face had had a large territory centred around the hall of justice, and Black Mask had started a cult. Even the Ventriloquist had had a pretty large territory for himself, and though he'd been a late-comer, Killer Croc had had a territory running from the river up to Hard-Back's block. Everyone except Joker. Joker had had a largely in-tact tower block, Harley and four minions. Even knowing that Joker's only real interest was in him, it had still seemed odd. After all, taking control of a large chunk of the city would have been the surest way of assuring Bruce's attention.

"You didn't actually like No-Man's Land, did you?" he asks quietly. "All those years preaching anarchy, but when it happened, you hated it."

Joker throws up his hands in disgust, (presumably) accidentally flicking a forkful of rice down the cleavage of the very large woman sitting behind him. "That wasn't anarchy, that was drudgery! Of course I hated it. All those people scrabbling about like rats, trying to find enough food to last them one more day, they didn't have time to be scared! I'm a pretty imaginative guy Batsy, but even I couldn't come up with anything worse to do to people than leaving them to starve and eat each other in Gotham's carcass."

Bruce understands. "You felt you didn't have a place."

"I felt you were too busy herding the squealing little rat people to pay me any attention," Joker says with a pout. "I waited for you, Batsy. Waited and waited, and I even kidnapped orphans, and I got you jelly beans, and still you didn't come!"

"I sent Azrael," Bruce points out calmly. "And Cassie. And you had Harley to keep you company."

"You knew?!" Joker's voice is an acid hiss, rising to a furious screech, "You knew I was waiting and you didn't come! You let me...!"

"You're making a scene," Bruce says. "Of course I knew. You really think I wasn't keeping track of you? When have I ever lost track of you, Joker? The only time since you first appeared that I haven't kept track of your every movement was after Bane, and then I knew that Nightwing was doing it for me!"

"Truly?" Joker asks, and his voice is small and hopeful, like a child who's been promise their parents will be home soon (don't think of that, put it out of your mind Bruce, never think of that).

"Truly." It's ridiculous for Bruce to feel guilty, but he does. Joker is his, his creation and his responsibility, and it's impossible not to be moved by the emotion in those big red eyes, even when he knows it's feigned. Worse, Joker's hands are totally still, lying pale and unmoving on the tablecloth, and Bruce has never seen him so still before. It's disconcerting. "The machine you built was very impressive," he adds, holding out the sentence like a peace offering. "I didn't know you were so mechanical."

Joker peers through his lashes at him suspiciously. "You didn't see it," he accuses.

"I wouldn't come to you, it would only have encouraged you," Bruce tells him. "I went and looked at it later, after you'd gone. A little over-elaborate."

Joker actually looks a little embarrassed. "I was in a mood," he says. "But it was rather good, wasn't it? All those flamethrowers, and the spinning blades."

"And the acid," Bruce says, and Joker's face splits with his signature grin.

"You really did see it!"

"I don't lie Joker, not even to you," Bruce says. "Now eat your stir-fry before you start a riot."

Joker is quiet for the rest of the meal, only the occasional soft giggle, of the kind that seem to be as integral to Joker as breathing (or possibly more so, since he can hold his breath for an impressive length of time), breaking the silence. Most people would probably find it restful, the silence isn't uncomfortable, but Bruce is always filled with horrifying vision of what Joker might be planning every time he's quiet for any length of time.

They walk back through the winding streets of Gotham towards the backs in silence, Bruce carrying the food and Joker the clothes. After a few minutes, Joker slips his free arm through Bruce’s, and Bruce assumes all is now forgiven.

He'd left the Batmobile in an abandoned garage in the backs, tucked tell out of the way. He hasn't kept any of his cars, but the current styles are angular and military that the Batmobile no longer stands out the way it once had.

As Bruce unlocks the car, Joker says in a soft voice behind him, “Thank you, Batsy.” For the sake of both their dignity, Bruce pretends he doesn’t hear.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

The suits and waistcoats arrive three days later, delivered to an old lady in Tricorner Bruce pays to act as a postal address. She thinks he’s a commercial traveller.

Joker is nearly beside himself with glee when Bruce brings them back, bouncing on his toes like an excited child and snatching the boxes out of Bruce’s hands before he’s even through the door.

To Bruce’s amusement he starts changing then and there, stripping off his shirt and jeans. Before he turns away, Bruce notices that the bat-shaped scar on his chest is still livid and pink, looking as though it were weeks old rather than years.

Joker coughs, and Bruce turns to see him posing dramatically.

“So tell me Batsy? How do I look?”

Joker’s standing straight, something he rarely does, and Bruce is struck again by how tall he is. He always forgets.

Joker’s wearing a purple pinstripe tail coat with black silk lapels and lining, with slim trousers in the same fabric, just a little too long in the fashion of the season.

His waistcoat is green satin, the exact same shade as his hair, with black buttons. His shirt is a fashionable shade of acid yellow, so vivid it makes Bruce’s eyes hurt, with a black bow at the throat. On his lapel, where usually there’d be some extravagant fake flower, are pins, most showing the bat logo.

His hands and feet are bare, his nails painted shade of purple so dark it’s almost black. When his long fingers smooth down the front of his waist coat, Bruce’s eyes follow them helplessly, like a cat watching a mouse.

Joker’s applied his lipstick more carefully than usual, but something about it seems to be bothering him, because his tongue keeps flicking out to wet his lips, or maybe taste the paint.

His eyes are rimmed with some kind of kohl, and it makes his red irises gleam.

His hair is long, since he won’t let Bruce cut it, but somehow it suits him, flaring out from his head like a mane, long enough to brush his shoulders.

“You’re making me nervous, Batsy! How do I look?”

“Like Joker,” Bruce says, because he can’t think of anything else to say that isn’t ‘beautiful’.

Joker laughs and holds out a hand. “You promised me a dance.”

He hadn’t, and there’s no music, but Joker’s smile is soft and real and Bruce is powerless to resist. He takes Joker’s hand and allows Joker to insinuate himself into Bruce’s arm. Bruce is amused to note that it’s a Waltz hold.

Joker dances surprisingly well, certainly better than Bruce. There’s an awkward moment when they both try to lead, but Joker quickly gives way, relaxing into Bruce's arms and resting his cheek against Bruce's. He’s humming softly under his breath, something soft and low. Bruce can feel the soft vibration of it against his cheek.

Bruce does his best to ignore the way Joker smells of new fabric and popcorn, of the fact that his waist under his hands is even slimmer than Talia's had been, while his chest is more solid than even the most athletic woman's. It's a strange dichotomy, having someone so strong and yet so pliant in his arms. Having Joker being so quiet and gentle, when he's normally a being of pure chaos.

"Hey Batsy," Joker whispers, his breath caressing the sensitive skin of Bruce's ear and making him shiver, "There's been something I've been meaning to say to you."

"Yes?" Bruce asks, pulling Joker just a little closer, so he can feel his chest rising and falling as he breathes.

"You shouldn't have ignored me in No Man's Land," Joker says, his voice pleasant. There's a moment of stillness, and then Bruce feels a dull spreading pain in his side. Joker steps back, red eyes glittering. "And you should never underestimate me," Joker adds, and Bruce thinks he's never seen him so serious.

The pain in his side is worse, and he looks down to see a small pair of embroidery scissors, the handle in the shape of a golden crane, protruding from the flesh of his side, a spreading ring of red staining his shirt.

"The thing about me," Joker says, as Bruce staggers to his desk, looking for a first aid kit, "Is that I'm not safe. And I never, ever, forgive."

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, why not come find my fic recs at gluttonforpunsihment over on tumblr
> 
> Comments are love!


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